


Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth

by draculard



Category: Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang - Kate Wilhelm
Genre: Clone Sex, Clones, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Infertility, Mutation, Post-Apocalypse, Selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 05:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: "There's nothing to worry about," David tells her. "The odds of genetic defects are slim. Almost zero."This, of course, is before the end of the world.





	Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth

“There’s nothing to worry about,” David tells her. “The odds of genetic defects are slim.” And when she doesn’t respond to him, when she shies away from the ferocity and desperation in his voice, he adds, “Almost zero,” and then he adds, “And I don’t care anyway. Do you?” but he knows it’s too late.

This, of course, is before the end of the world; before some nameless disease leaves a permanent blue tinge on Celia’s skin; before sterility invades them both and leaves them cold. 

It’s funny how priorities can change so fast. From the age of six, when he first declares, “I’m going to marry Celia someday,” to the age of twenty-three, incest is David’s biggest concern. The risk of harm to any potential children weighs on his mind heavier than anything else, because when he asks his aunts and uncles, that’s always the reason they give.

“You  _ can’t _ marry Celia,” they say. “Your children wouldn’t turn out right.”

And for so long, David believes them. Why shouldn’t he? The other reasons seem so trivial compared to that. Soon, he thinks of methods to get around the hypothetical defective children  — condoms, then birth control, then vasectomy, then abortion. All seem like valid options, certainly better than the prospect of simply never marrying Celia at all. 

He remembers how she broke his arm when they were both fourteen.

He remembers how she cried that day they wrestled in the rain, their clothes torn, their skin dirty from rolling on the road.

And then the apocalypse comes, and nothing much matters anymore.

_ Think of the children, _ David thinks in his mother’s voice after one long day of dealing with W-1 who shuts David and Walt out of the lab, of D-2 and D-3, who turn their backs and close their mouths when David walks by, of C-3 staring at him from across the room, curious and afraid.

They come out in batches of six. Six identical brothers, six identical sisters, all growing at the same time, thinking and feeling the same things. They start exploring each other’s bodies early, writhing together on mats on the floor, perfectly in tune to what their brothers want, what they dislike, what feels good, what hurts.

And they draw, but only what they see. And they listen to stories, but make up none of their own.

_ Think of the children,  _ they said. What does it matter anymore? 

All the children are defective now.


End file.
